


Shrinking Violet

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Cute, First Kiss, Flowers, Fluff, Language of Flowers, M/M, Romance, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tavish DeGroot works at The RED Herring, a local bar with a colourful staff and a comfortable atmosphere.  One day a mysterious bouquet arrives on the step of the bar for him, from an anonymous sender!  Who could it be?  When Miss Pauling, his manager, notices the bouquets are arranged using floral language, she decides to help Tavish find out who his mystery date is!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saturday

"Hey Tavish! Tav!"

Tavish waved a hand, in the middle of taking inventory of his assortment of garnishes. The back of the bar always ended up cluttered on nights after Scout closed, too busy chatting up the customers and putting on a show to keep things organized and re-stock at the end of the night. He made great tips, but at the expense of Tavish's sanity, most days. If he was going to get through a busy Saturday night, he was going to make sure everything was stocked and in its place. The Scot prided himself on knowing where everything was without having to look, as he didn't have an eye to spare on looking under the bar.

"Tavish, man, there's a special delivery for you!" Scout crowed, hopping up onto a bar stool. The RED Herring wouldn't be open for another two hours, but here was the senior bartender, taking inventory and rearranging things as always. He grinned wide and rapped his knuckles on the lacquered oak of the bar, demanding his attention.

"Scout for the love of Christ I dunnae have time tae--" Tavish began grousing, turning around with his notepad in hand, caught off-guard in mid-sentence by the sight of a bouquet in the younger man's hands, a smallish thing full of bright colours wrapped in pink and red paper and ribbon. "What is that?"

"Well it's a bouquet, dummy. An' the card says it's for you. Or, at least, 'the handsome bartender with one eye and a roguish smile' is probably referrin' to you, Cyclops." Scout grinned and handed the thing to Tavish, who looked down at the flowers with a mixture of wonder and flattery.

In his arms a red rose, large and in full-bloom, flanked by three smaller orange roses were the centre of the show, ringed by pinkish purple flowers with white edges to their petals and flocked with a few sprigs of purple lilac, with some ferns and baby's breath to round it out. The colours were warm and lovely, and Tavish couldn't help but feel his stomach tighten as he took the card from the plastic holder that sat within the bouquet and flipped it open.

 

_To The Handsome Bartender With One Eye And A Roguish Smile_

_Too shy to say hello._

_So hello._

_\--An Admirer_

 

"You got a secret admirer, Tav!" Scout laughed, his butt planted on the bar after having crawled atop it to read over the Scot's shoulder. Nevermind that he'd already read the card once already.

"Will you get off of the bloody bar!" Tavish sighed, not once looking away from the flowers. An admirer? Sending him flowers? At work? It had to be a customer, but was it a regular? A one-time visit? Was this all just a joke?

"Aww you're just all worked up 'cause somebody's in love with you!" the younger man's sing-song tone cut through Tavish's thoughts. He ignored the scowling look he received as he hollered to the back, "Hey Miss Pauling! Can you bring over a vase? Tav's got some flowers almost as pretty as you are!"

The manager shot Scout a look from where she was setting up the tables, then looked to Tavish, who shot her an apologetic glance, holding his flowers and looking like he was physically trying to will the blood out of his cheeks. A smile curved her lips and she sauntered over, folding her arms atop the bar as she leaned in to see. "Those are beautiful, Tavish! Did you get them at the shop across the street? Have a date after shift?"

"Er, nae--"

"It's from a secret admirer!" Scout blurted out, throwing an arm over Tavish's shoulder and watching with a smirk as the man deflated.

"A secret admirer?" Pauling echoed with a raised eyebrow, amusement clear in her tone. "How scandalous! What a wild arrangement, too!"

"Aye, they're beautiful," Tavish agreed, giving the roses a sniff.

"Well not just that, but there's a message written all over this," the manager rejoined, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I mean, if I'm still remembering things right."

"Well the card's right here," Scout explained, offering it to her.

"No, no, I mean like—when I was in high school I was way into Victorian flower language, and I remember a pretty decent amount, though I haven't done anything with it in years. I was always really disappointed that it wasn't a more precise language. I wanted to be able to write rude things with the arrangement of my garden at home, or give bouquets to friends that were actually dirty jokes, stuff like that. A bit of a bummer to learn that instead you could just say things like, 'you're pretty,' or 'I hope you're healthy.' Stuff like that."

"..and?"

"And this is a message in the language of flowers!" Pauling surmised, seemingly unaware that she'd rambled off-topic.

"So what's this baby say?"

"Well," Pauling dug her fingers into the bouquet carefully, running them along the stems of the roses. "The middle rose is thornless, and those flowers with the white rimmed petals are gloxinia, and those both mean love at first sight. The orange roses mean fascination, and the lilacs are the beginnings of love. Wow, Tav, looks like this person's got it bad for you."

"I kinda dig how it looks a little like a target from the top-down," Scout mused, kneeling up on the bar for a better perspective.

"It sort of does," Tavish admitted with a smile. Love at first sight?

"I don't know any meanings there, but it's a neat design," Pauling admitted, reaching up to grab Scout by the arm. "Now get off of the bar before I fire you, Scout."

"Yes ma'am!"

Tavish ignored his coworkers as Pauling went for a vase, Scout pestering her for what her favourite flower varieties were. He was too busy staring at that lone red rose, his stomach tight, his eye wide, a broad smile across his features.

Then, it struck him.

"How the bloody hell am I supposed to reply?"


	2. Sunday

"Who is that order for?" The words were accompanied by clove-scented tobacco smoke and an air of smugness that was almost physically palpable. The sudden arrival of it all nearly made Mick snip his fingertip instead of the stem held between the blades of his shears, a yelp half-dying in his throat.

"Would you stop sneaking up on me like that you slitherin' French bell-end?" he barked, setting down his tools and turning to face the smirking owner of Le Petit Chou-Fleur, resplendent in his usual pin-stripe slacks and waistcoat, his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows. With his combed-back black hair and greying widow's peak and temples, he looked more like a gangster than a florist. Mick had stopped bothering to question his boss' odd idiosyncrasies. In particular, his tendency to forget to put out his cigarette around the fresh flowers, which drove the lanky Australian mad.

"Mais oui! If you are going to engross yourself in your projects to the point where you're this unobservant, I should have to begin wearing tap shoes to work, lest I startle our precious shrinking violet," the Frenchman teased, stubbing his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and dropping it in the trash. "But you did not answer my question, Mundy."  
Mick sighed, caught. He'd finished all of his tickets an hour ago, and had picked up a project of his own rather than using his spare time wisely with cleaning or organizing like he knew he should have. "It's-- it's not an order. It's for me."

"Flowers for yourself? Mundy, I know you are a lonely man, but--"

"Not like that and you know it, Renard!" the Australian interrupted, scowling at his boss' impish grin. "It's for...someone."

"Someone?" Renard grinned and peered around his shoulder, invading Mick's personal space and relishing how his tall, rangy employee shrugged away from him. He loved to pester the twitchy florist, knowing full well he'd get his comeuppance later with some sort of prank or insult. He always found the initial antagonism worth the risks. "Who is this person, I dare ask?" He looked at the flowers laid out on Mick's table, unassembled, being trimmed and cut to work into a bouquet.

The cool indigo of morning glories were offset by cheery yellow mums, and a few stray budded pink moss roses and pale purple touch-me-nots sat waiting to be trimmed, smaller more understated than the other, brighter flowers. "Affection, hope, confession and timidity. I wasn't aware you knew Florography, Mundy," the shorter man mused. "You have a crush."

"You make it sound like I'm a teenager."

"You are making a bouquet for someone and plainly telling them you are afraid to tell them by using flowers to tell them this. You are acting like a teenager. Are you going to include a card and sign it 'an admirer' or something similarly trite?"

Mick sputtered, "N-no!"

"Merde. How many have you sent already?"

"Just... just one."

"Just one?"

"Yesterday. Roses, gloxinia, lilac..."

"This is adorable."

"Shut it!"

"Non, this is precious! Mundy has a crush and he's using the language of flowers to communicate what words cannot! It is all very romantic," Renard teased, gesturing dramatically with one hand to his chest and the other drawing a sweeping arc in the air.  
"You are just loving this," Mick pouted, picking his sunglasses up from the table and perching them back on his nose.

"And why are you not? This is your chase! A mysterious man sending flowers? How intriguing! And a second in as many nights? If she is not terrified she will be enthralled, mon ami!" the shorter man's grin faded from mocking to conspiratorial. He was no stranger to sending excessive floral attention to an object of affection. His girlfriend and her shortage of available vases and plethora of annoyed sons could attest to that. But he had to admit, this was actually a rather cute gesture, if surprising coming from the laconic, shy Australian. But perhaps it was all too appropriate from the man he had nicknamed 'shrinking violet'.

"Er, it's not a 'she', mate," Mick corrected with an awkward clear of his throat, his slouch returning.

"Oh," Renard mused, chewing on this new information. He'd never pegged Mundy for a romantic at all, but perhaps it stood to reason he'd been looking for indicators of attention toward ladies. His smile curled back across his lips. Flowers for a man! The cuteness levels had reached kitten-quality, and with a lift of his finger, the slim, suited man snuck into the back room and came out bearing a book. He laid it down on the sales counter and opened it, paging through. "Well, if we are to win you the man of your love at first sight, we must make sure to have some more ideas! Continue your work! But a suggestion: give him more this time. A name, or a pseudonym. Something to cling to. You must give him more to go on with each step, increasing and decreasing the mystery in equal measure! That is how you will find your way into his mind until you are all he can think of, and thus: his heart."

"You're serious."

"As a heart attack," Renard grinned, craning over the desk. "I have one of my Florography books right here. We will get to work. In fact, I already have an idea for tomorrow night, if you will indulge me. I just need to refine it. Finish your project, and we will plan."  
Mick looked back to his table, taking off his sunglasses and frowning. He picked up the blank card on the table and thought a moment. A pseudonym?

*

"To the smiling Scotsman. I don't have many words, but so much to say to you. If you're willing to listen. Signed, Shrinking Violet," Tavish read, looking up from the bouquet in wonder, its array of lovely colours a bright point in the dark, woody bar.

"Shrinking Violet?" Scout asked, tilting his head curiously.

"A pen name, I guess," Pauling supplied with a shrug. "Certainly fits the behaviour. Anonymously sending gifts and vague yet sweet messages. Plus this bouquet speaks to that like crazy."

"Aye, but what am I supposed to do? I dunnae have any way to reply! And what of the poor lass when she finds out--"

"That you like dick?" Scout supplied, interrupting.

Tavish sent him a glare. "Yes, Scout. Thank ye."

"Well, there's really nothing you can do," Pauling supplied. They keep just showing up on the doorstep when nobody's looking.

"Maybe wait outside tomorrow for it? Try an' catch 'er?" Scout offered.

"And get no work done in the meanwhile?" Tavish countered with a grumble. "Jes' keep an eye on the door, I suppose."

"It's all we can do."

"Hey, no problem! We'll find out who Tavish's shrinkin' violet is in no time!"


	3. Monday

"Hey Tav! Good news and bad news!" Scout hollered across the bar, skirting around Pauling and Misha, the chef, who were going over the night's specials.

Tavish sighed, leaning against the bar. "Good news: new flowers? Bad news: no identity?"

"Pretty much, but with a weird twist," the younger man shrugged, pulling his delivery from behind his back. It was certainly strange. The bouquet was smaller than the previous two, and seemed to consist entirely of long field grass, a cool blue-green in colour, with a braided cord of azure and navy binding it. Two sprigs of oleander, purple, and pink, and a single white snow-drop rested atop the background of grasses. Tavish took the bundle from his coworker, looking at it with wide eyes. He supposed this must be the test of whether he was getting the messages. Why else would Shrinking Violet offer--

"Is that _grass_?" Pauling asked, handing her notepad to Misha and rushing over with a grin.

"I think so," came the Scot's bewildered reply, fishing around for a card of some sort.

"Oh wow you're in luck!" she replied with a laugh, her nose crinkling with the glee. Scout and Tavish gave her a look. She was so damn entertained by this, and is was amusing to see in the face of her normally work-stressed demeanor.

"What do ye mean?"

"Well, the oleander means 'caution', which makes sense considering the confession of the grass. I'd be a little cautious too, falling in love with a stranger under those circumstances," she explained, the corner of her lip tugging up as she talked around the issue, mostly to watch Tavish and Scout lean forward, rapt and anxious. "And the snow-drop means hope."

"Come on, Boss! Spit it out!" Scout pleaded, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a gentle shake, which only served to make her laugh.

"Homosexual love," Pauling replied plainly, looking to Tavish and beaming.

The Scot's jaw dropped open, and he looked to the unorthodox arrangement in his arms, a smile curling across his lips. A bloke had been sending these? A bloke has been sending him flowers? His heart fluttered, his stomach tightened like it had when the first bundle of blossoms had shown up for him, and he finally noticed a small card tucked into the grass. Withdrawing the thing, he flipped it open.

 

_To The Bewitching Bartender,_

_A confession, of sorts._

_Is my caution warranted?_

_Shrinking Violet_

 

Tavish thought a moment as he set the bouquet down on the bar, then looked to Pauling. "Do we have enough time for ye tae give me a hand with something?"

"What, now?"

"Aye. Shrinking Violet needs tae know he's nae barking up the wrong tree."

"Good thing, since you clearly give 'im wood," Scout laughed, elbowing his friend in the ribs, only to receive a swat in return.

Pauling looked to Scout and Misha, then to Tavish. She nodded and called over her shoulder, "Misha, you're in charge for a while! Make sure Scout gets shit done and doesn't screw around!" She looked back to her younger bartender. "Organize the bar, restock it, and help the servers prep the dining room for open."

"What? Why me? What did I do?"

"You left the bar looking like crap last night, now get to work. Tavish, you're with me."

"Aye, ma'am!"

The Scot tossed his young coworker a salute and followed Pauling out of the bar, a spring in his step.

Scout watched them go with a huff, before the lumbering Russian chef shoved him off to go prep the bar like he was told.

 

*

 

Stepping through the doors of Le Petit Chou-Fleur, the florist across the street, Tavish and Pauling were assaulted by the sweet scents of flowers in bloom, along with the earthy chemical scent of potting soil and plant food. It was at once odd and comforting, and reminded Tavish of the summers of his childhood helping his blind mother tend her garden. He recalled strolling through greenhouses, holding her hand and describing the different plants to the slender, Scottish woman, who had a love of blossoms in hues of the warm colours she would refuse to admit she missed. Instead, she would often talk about the scents of the garden, the smell of fresh flowers, and how much she enjoyed the more delicate aromas. Even so, she would always ask Tavish to help her find the red ones.

Two men occupied the modest shop as the bartender and his manager entered. One stood behind the counter, leaning over it and paging through a book, an unlit cigarette between his smirking lips, giving the impression that he always wore that expression. Idly, Tavish wondered if he even smirked as he ate. The other labored at a workstation in the back corner, snipping stems and arranging a rather voluminous vase of peonys. At the moment, he had a single white burst starwort tucked into the band of his rather dashing slouch hat. His face was long, but friendly, and he wore a light coating of stubble on his underbitten jaw. A pair of sunglasses hung from the breast pocket of his shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to stay out of the way, while nimble fingers worked carefully with the floral arrangement, his squinted blue eyes darting carefully about his work table, completely engrossed in his task. Tavish recognized him, a frequent dart-player at The Red Herring. He hadn't realized the guy had worked right across the street, but it made sense. A lot of their patrons worked around the bar, and would tie one off there after a long day on the job. He found his one-eyed gaze lingering on the preoccupied florist with interest. Sure, he had a secret admirer, but he'd be damned if he couldn't look.

"Ah, bonjour! Welcome to La Petit Chou-Fleur! How may I help you, today? Wait, let me guess: flowers for your wedding?" Renard crooned, launching into his best salesman facade. A quiet snort from Mick as he worked was pointedly ignored.

"Ah, no, we're nae--" Tavish began, taken off-guard. He supposed walking into a florist with a pretty young lady like Pauling at his side did give an impression.

"Nothing like that," Pauling interrupted her stammering employee. "We're here looking to order a small bouquet," she explained. "My friend here is looking to impress someone special."

Tavish smiled upon being indicated, nodding. "Aye, something simple but that makes a statement."

Mick looked up from his work at the sound of the bartender's throaty brogue. He swallowed hard, dropping his gaze immediately to avoid being noticed, tugging his hat down and watching through his eyebrows from under its brim. He was here. The handsome Scotsman was here. He was in _his_ shop! Well, that made sense. He worked across the street. But he was here! And he was just as beautiful in the light of day as in the dim light of the bar. Perfect, dark skin, well-trimmed facial hair, rakish smile, broad shoulders, long legs, and that butt! Mick had to will himself to breathe. He felt like a boy, all aflutter over the man of his dreams. He had accused Renard of the implication but he truly felt like a teenager in the throes of a hopeless, all-consuming crush. It both terrified and thrilled the reserved Australian. He was in his forties. He shouldn't be getting giddy at the sight of the object of his affections. He tried to calm the thrum of his heartbeat and instead listen to what was being said at the counter.

"Ah, well then, tell me about this mystery date, and we can figure out what best suits your needs. We have many varieties, and pride ourselves on acquiring exactly what a customer needs. Other florists keep such a limited stock. We like to go above, to ensure your intentions are expressed perfectly," Renard cooed, standing straight and trying to quell his amusement with Mick's reactions out of the corner of his eye. How fortunate that they should work across the street from one another! He might even be merciful and not make his employee construct this order himself.

"Actually, we already have an idea of what he should have," Pauling replied. She knew her stuff. Tavish would have the perfect bouquet, no problem!

"Oh? Well then," Renard tugged a notepad from his breast pocket and retrieved a pencil from the counter, prepared to write, "go right ahead."

"Jonquils, vervains, viscarias, and palm leaves," she replied simply, with a nod.

"Lovely yellow and purples, fine compliments! And such a strong message!" the florist turned to Tavish, his smirk having softened into a genuine smile. "I hope they accept your dance, mon ami."

"Dance?"

"I'll explain the meanings when we get back, Tavish," Pauling shrugged. "But considering how you feel, it's perfect. Believe me."

"Aye," the Scot nodded, a bit out of his depth. "When will this be done?"

"Oh, it should be no time at all once we begin! When will you need it by?"

"Er, any time at all, really. I suppose tomorrow morning?"

"This, I can do easily."

"Aye, I'll be back around half ten, then?"

"Perfect. It will be ready, and you can pay upon pickup. May I have a name?"

"Tavish. Er, Tavish DeGroot," he stuttered, supposing he should give a full name.

"Merci, Monsieur DeGroot. We will see you tomorrow morning."

"Eh, thanks!"

As they took their leave of the store, Mick looked up from his stealthy observations with a dreamy smile. Tavish. What a handsome name.

"Would you like to work on your own bouquet, or shall I?" his manager asked, coming around to lean against the Australian's worktable, flapping the notebook in the air like it were a wad of bills.

"Eh what?"  
"Oh, please! He came in here and ordered a bouquet without even mentioning who it's for, and let the little lady detail the order! She's clearly his translator in this little affair and he's fumbling in how to express himself!"

"If it were for me he wouldn't know where to send it."

"Or maybe he has a better idea?"

"It's probably for some lucky sheila, and 'e's been spurred on to go get himself into a relationship because some weird bloke told 'im 'e's in love with 'im with a bundle of grass."

"If that were true, then why would the flowers symbolize victory, enchantment, affection returned, and an invitation to dance?"

"What?"

"Were you too busy staring at him like a lovesick puppy that you didn't even listen?" He dropped the notebook on Mick's worktable. "Or has the meaning of viscaria suddenly changed without my knowledge?"

Mick stared at the page, reading over the flowers. It couldn't be. It couldn't. He huffed and pouted up at his employer. "You make it. If you're wrong...," he sighed. "You—you make it."

Renard shook his head, his smile softening. "Some day you will realize that I am always right. And I await that day with knowing patience."

Mick simply picked his shears back up and resumed snipping stems.


	4. Tuesday

Tavish chewed at his lip, leaning on the bar. For some reason Tuesday nights were always the slowest, even slower than Mondays. This was no different, and in the boredom of idleness, he was left time to think. He arranged the mixers as he pondered what had gone wrong. He'd purchased the bouquet early, brought it with him when he showed up to work, and left it on the doorstep, where his mystery suitor would find it. It was gone by the time the bar had opened, but nothing was left in its place. There were no flowers from Shrinking Violet. No card, no note, no message of any sort. Just silence.

Maybe he'd been scared away by his attempt to communicate? Maybe someone had taken the thing, someone it was not meant for, and his Violet had taken the seeming lack of response as a sign? Maybe something had happened to him? None of these thoughts sat well in Tavish's mind and he found himself in a fugue, working mechanically as he waited for something engaging to do, something to take his mind off of these thoughts. He cast his eyes about the room. Even on slow nights there were still regulars in attendance. A few twenty-somethings sat by the windows and chatted in sexual terms about Misha's luxurious cooking, particularly deviant in describing the chips fried in duck fat that the Russian loved to serve with the dishes that warranted chips, and even a few that did not. A table of older women, likely in their fifties, mothers whose children were grown and had left them with new-found free time, compared child-rearing experience in equal measure with ogling the various men of various ages who also occupied the barroom. And of course, there was the small gathering of gamers at the pool table and dart board.

Tavish noticed the handsome man in the slouch hat from the florist amongst the dart-throwers. His sunglasses perched on his nose, darts in hand, he was busily showing his competitors what-for with repeated bulls-eyes and modest shrugging. The Scot took a moment to lose himself staring in that direction, at the profile of the rangy florist and the way he cocked his hips forward as he stood. His pants had flared legs, but hugged his bottom in a way that raised eyebrows and brought a smirk to the bartender's lip. He noted with amusement that he had yet another flower tucked into the band of his hat. This time, it was a geranium, standing as a bright note of purple in the otherwise plain wardrobe of the tall man.

"Tavish," Pauling's voice barely carried over the low din, pulling the older man out of his reverie.

"Aye? What do ye need?" he asked, with a start, breaking his gaze from the handsome florist and his dart game.

Pauling followed her employee's eye, and smirked. The florist. She couldn't fault him. He _was_ cute. "Not bad," she admitted with an impish smile. "Anyway, I have good news! You can stop sulking!"

"I was nae sulking!" Tavish argued with a huff. He certainly wasn't sulking, or disappointed, or worried. Not in the slightest. How dare she even entertain the thought!

"Well whatever you were doing, you can stop." She held up a bouquet, larger than the last two, as big as the first night's. Ivy geraniums, stars of pale purple dominated the arrangement, accompanied by bright pinks, snowy whites and rounded shapes in a splash of camellias, the thin, sparse petals of nutmeg geraniums in their whites and purple spots finishing the bouquet to a message of finality. "He accepts your invitation to dance. Longing for you, expecting a meeting! Also he thinks you're cute," she explained, handing the bundle to the bartender with a dramatic flourish.

"Yer having so much fun with this," he laughed, then realized what she said. "A meeting?"

"A meeting! Ivy geraniums!" she replied, nearly dancing with excitement

Tavish fished the card out of the bouquet.

 

_To The Dashing Drinksmith,_

_Tomorrow._

_Bloom or Wilt?_

_Shrinking Violet_

 

Tomorrow. A meeting. Tavish looked from the thin points of the nutmeg geraniums to the thicker, wider petals of the ivy ones, confounded. "These are both geraniums?" he asked.

"Yeah, geraniums come in a few different shapes, but they're both geraniums."

"What about the one that bloke's wearin'. Is that a geranium?" the bartender asked, indicating the florist's hat across the room.

"Oh yeah, that's a..." Pauling trailed off, thinking, "maybe lemon geranium? Really pretty flow—TAVISH." She spun and grabbed hold of his shirt, tugging him down to her level. "TAVISH THAT IS A LEMON GERANIUM DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?"

"I didnae even ken it was a lemon geranium, Miss Pauling," he replied, eye wide. The tiny woman could be terrifying when she her mind was churning away, jumping topics in an instant with excessive amounts of verve.

"A lemon geranium means an unexpected meeting, Tav! It all makes sense! The flowers! He's a florist! You saw him yesterday at the shop when you ordered the bouquet! That's why his boss was so smarmy! Now you saw him here today!"

"He plays darts here thrice a week. That's nae unexpected."

"Geraniums, Tavish!"

That had gained Mick's attention, hearing the young woman yelling excitedly at her employee from across the room. He looked over, trying not to make it obvious that he was observing, the two restauranteurs too busy in their own exchange to pay him any mind, in spite of being the very subject of their conversation. Geraniums, eh? She'd figured it out, it seemed like. Tavish was looking a might skeptical, but the florist could see the hope in his eye. The smile that curved at his lips even as he wore doubt everywhere else. Renard was right. Tomorrow, he would make his move. Tavish had given the bouquet, just like he'd said he would. The beautiful little bundle sat hidden in the trunk of the florist's car until he could get it home and into water, hidden and safe.

He gulped, and turned his attention back to his game, licking his lips. The reality of it came crashing to him as he threw the dart, whiffing for the first time that night, causing a cry of disbelief to rise from his companions.

"Tavish, I know what you need to do. Go to the florist first thing tomorrow. Here, I'll write you down an order. If he's not there, well, bring it to work when it's done," Pauling explained, grabbing a pad and pen.

Tavish watched her scratch down her ideas intently. What if his Shrinking Violet was the handsome florist? It did make sense. But what if this was all wrong? What if the florist was just a customer? What if he said no? What if he said yes? If he wasn't then what about Shrinking Violet? He swallowed hard, hoping Pauling was right.


	5. Wednesday

Mick steeled himself. Wednesdays were his day off, and he was glad for that. He'd rather not have to arrange and deal with his boss all day with this sort of load on his mind. As it was, stopping by the shop for five minutes had been a whole ordeal. He'd stopped in to pick up a single, full-bloom, red rose. He'd walked away with a pep talk and a purple violet tucked into the band of his hat for good luck. The bar was in full swing, several hours since opening, and he could hear the jukebox from outside. He stood by the door, nervous, debating between lighting a cigarette and smoking it to calm his nerves. But then he'd just have another, and another, because his nerves wouldn't calm, and he'd waste the night turning himself into a tobacco-stinking mess with nothing to show for it but a rough cough and a smoked-out voice. He grit his teeth. Tavish would say yes. Of course he would. He'd left the bouquet for him! If it was for him. For all he knew he could be horribly disappointed, expecting some dashing, handsome rogue more like Renard than himself, a scrawny, gangly, introverted Australian. He moved to open the door, and froze, then stepped back and grumbled, pacing a bit.

 

*

 

"Holy shit, look who's got cold feet!" Scout mused, beckoning Pauling over from where she was finishing up greeting a few of the night's patrons.

"What's going on?" she asked, approaching her younger bartender, who was peering out the window with a grin.

"The florist guy's 'ere, an' 'e's all nervous an' pacin' around. 'e's tried to come in at least once already and couldn't do it."

"That's adorable."

"Right?" Scout chuckled. "Poor guy's psychin' 'imself out. An' look! 'e's got a rose in 'is hand!"

Pauling craned to see, and, indeed, he did. She knew it! Misha owed her five dollars! "Stay right here, I'll be right back!" She pranced off into the crowd, then quickly returned. "Wait, no, come with me. Someone needs to tend the bar."

 

*

 

Mick took a deep breath, then another. The brick of the bar's exterior was cool against his skin through the thin, red cotton of his shirt. His knees felt like jelly, his stomach curling in on itself, his guts tying themselves together into knots that would make the boy scouts green with envy. What a coward, what a weakling. He couldn't even bring himself to walk up to the bloke and say--

"Hello."

Mick opened his eyes, his face turned down, gaze falling first on a pair of brown hands holding a large bouquet. Red, orange, and white nearly glowed under the pale lights on the outside of the building as he beheld an arrangement of roses, ambrosia flowers, and violets. White violets. He remembered the purple one he wore, and wrenching his mind into focus, looked up.

Tavish stood before the nerve-wracked Australian, smiling softly, offering the bouquet to him. "Shrinking Violet?" he asked, tapping his head to indicate the florist's hat.

Mick swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. He took the bouquet and shakily lifted the single rose, offering it to Tavish. "Bartender."

He was even more gorgeous than Mick had remembered. His eye was a deep, dark honey tone that made the florist think of sweet things and warm fall evenings. His skin was smooth and youthful, his slim, strong jaw and cheekbones accentuated by his well-tended facial hair. His hair was close-cropped and looked soft to the touch, and he hadn't been able to tell before, but he was just a touch shorter than Mick himself. He'd seemed so much taller behind the bar, more imposing. But here, right in front of his face, it was a different story. There was no distance, no unfamiliarity. This was a man who'd welcomed his advances, and returned his attentions. A man with a smile on his lips and a laugh ready to go. Mick felt weak.

Tavish took hold of the rose, bringing it to his nose for a sniff. Mick looked so nervous, and he couldn't help but find it a little endearing. No one had ever gone to that level of effort over him in his life, and it was almost dizzying to plainly see just how ruined the other man was over him. It was entirely adorable. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to the florist's cheek, tilting his hat up and out of the way as he did.

Mick nearly melted when those soft lips met his cheek, and he feared his face would split from the smile that overtook it. It was just a light peck, but it was enough to bring his walls crashing down. He returned the gesture with slim arms wrapping around the Scot's neck, and suddenly their lips met, a chaste, careful kiss, but warm and welcoming nonetheless. Tavish's hands came to rest on the taller man's hips, savoring the feeling of Mick's thin lips, and the scratchy stubble that covered his thin, long jaw as their lips creased into broad smiles.

When they parted, a giddy laugh spread between them, and they leaned in, pressing their foreheads together a moment before finally reeling back.

"Name's Tavish," the Scot chuckled.

"I know. 'eard you say it in my shop," Mick replied. "Name's Mick."

"Oh, yer name's not really Violet?" the shorter man teased, petting at the slim florist's lower back.

"Not so much, but you can call me whatever you want."

"Then how about I call you tomorrow night for dinner?" Tavish offered.

"Why wait for tomorrow? There's a great Thai place down the road!"

Both men jumped, turning to look at the door, where Pauling was leaning out, a grin on her young features.

"Miss Pauling!" the Scot yelped.

"You've got the rest of the night off. Scout said he'll split his tips with you. Go on, get!" she explained, waving the two off with a grin to Mick, who gripped his bouquet in surprise.

"Yer sure?"

"You'd better get a move on before I stop being sure! Go! Go!" she shooed, waving them off. "Besides, it's bad for business to have a couple of forty-somethings making out next to the door like a pair of teenagers."

"We weren't making--"

"SHOO!"

"Right, right!" Tavish didn't need to be told a fourth time. He offered his arm, crooked at the elbow, which Mick took eagerly, tipping his hat to Pauling in thanks. "Now that the courtship's over, let's get to know one another, aye?" He grinned, and led the florist into the night.

"I'd love to," Mick replied, enchanted and excited in equal measure.

Misha and Scout reeled back from leaning against the window as Pauling closed the door.

"Well?" the younger man asked, bouncing on his toes.

"Well what?" Pauling asked.

"Is Tav goin' off to deflower his Violet, or what?"

**Author's Note:**

> based on a prompt from tumblr user shadowenza


End file.
